


Hating What I Can't Have

by AshKnight



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 23:07:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1405972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshKnight/pseuds/AshKnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Back in the enchanted forest, Regina has Emma right where she wants her: imprisoned in her palace. Now she just has to decide what to do with her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hating What I Can't Have

I wanted her dead, but I wanted her alive long enough to torture. I hated her golden hair, her infectious smile, her laugh. I wanted her dead. At least, that's what I told myself.

In August, my luck ran out. I'd been tracking the Charmings for months, to no avail. Do close... and yet... the bastards seemed to slip away every time I got near. I wanted them all dead. Snow, Charming, Emma... I didn't care who was first. I just wanted them to suffer. I killed many guards that month, blaming them for their failure to capture Snow and her family. Of course, my son Henry knew none of this. He simply thought his mother and the rest of his family had abandoned him. My feigned sympathy won me his love, and even his affection, and I was glad for that. He was the only thing I cared about, other than bringing suffering to my enemies.

Finally, in December, I caught a break. My head guard tracked them to a small camp at the far edge of the forest. The imbecile was only able to capture the daughter, but he brought her to me alive, which was what I had ordered. At least they followed one direction. I commended him for his work, praising his skill and prowess. Then, for failing to bring me her parents, I snapped his neck and laughed as it cracked, reveling the malice of it all as his corpse dropped to the stone floor of the palace. The two guards below him in rank - his friends - carried his body out into the snow. I ordered them to stab him until the blanket of white was soaked red with his blood, a warning to the rest of my intellectually-challenged army of men.

She was presented to me sliced up, bleeding everywhere - all over my goddam carpets - as she'd been greatly injured in the fight she'd put up when she was captured. I was furious.

"You FOOLS! I said ALIVE, not bleeding and half-dead!" I screamed.

Something about shouting at them gave me great satisfaction. I relished the way they quivered in fear before me, knowing their lives were on the line and could be taken at any moment.

"Next time, bring them to me CLEAN. And get this blood off my carpet before it stains!"

The woman's bright green eyes looked dark, and there were black circles around her eyes from what I assume was exhaustion. Tens of men facing off against three of them when they were weak and nearly starving was no match. I smirked at the thought of the fight, watching it play out in my mind. She knelt before me and looked as if she might faint, which amused me.

"Tired, Miss Swan? Perhaps some rest will do you well." I turned to my guards and ordered, "Take her to the dungeons, and make sure no one feeds her."

Too weak to stay awake, she slept, even on the cold stone floor. Her cheek would have been ice cold from the rock beneath it, and I smiled to think of how uncomfortable it must have been to lay on her wounds and bruises. When I visited her down in the dungeons, she was groaning in her sleep. My laugh woke her up, and she startled, reaching for her belt to grab the sword that wasn't there. I kept laughing. In all the time I'd known her, I'd never seen her look so defeated.

"Where's Henry?" she demanded. "Let me see my son."

I cackled and replied, "That isn't going to happen. After all, he thinks you abandoned him. He has no idea you've been plotting his kidnapping this entire time. And he will never know. He'll also never know when you're dead."

She scowled at me, fire flaming in her eyes. I loved the passion I saw there. It challenged me to match her fury, and I was more than glad to oblige. The game had begun. Cat and mouse was over, and she was finally mine, putty between my fingers.

"What's the matter, Miss Swan? Are you upset about something?"

Her face flashed with anger. I enjoyed the way her brow furrowed as she glared at me. It was all too clear the hate she felt in her heart towards me, and I was happy to share that loathing with her. After all, what is a villain without her enemies? I couldn't imagine myself without my spite and rage. I reasoned that she couldn't either. Our hate was a bond between us that could not be broken. It defined us.

"I want to see my son," she repeated.

I gripped the bars of her cell and promised, "You will never see my son again."

"He's _my_ son."

"Hardly," I quipped. "You may have given birth to him, but he will always be my little boy, and you will never really be his mother."

I watched defeat in her eyes as victory filled mine. I felt my heart would burst with satisfaction as I watched her breaking. I wanted to see her suffer, and my desire produced a thirst in me I could not quench.

"Why don't you just kill me?" she asked.

"Because I want you to suffer until you _beg_ for death." I turned to my guard and demanded, "Bind her wrists until the rope digs into her skin."


	2. By My Hands

The bitch was stubborn.

I tried for days to get her to give up the location of her parents, but she refused. I resorted to torture, which pleased me. At first, I watched as my guards made her suffer, beating her and tightening the ropes around her wrists until they were raw and red. Eventually, I could not refrain from personally seeing to her pain.

"Move aside," I hissed, shoving a guard out of the way and drawing my dagger. "No magic for you, Emma. I want you to suffer by my hands. This is... shall we say... personal."

I pointed the tip of the dagger at her heart and pressed it through the fabric there until a small trickle of blood bubbled up around it and seeped through her shirt. She bit down on her lip and sucked in a gasp. I loved watching her try to hold in the pain. I wouldn't let her win. I tore her shirt open and stared down at her chest. It rose and fell in heaving breaths. I could tell that it hurt her to breathe. Hands trembling in anticipation, I made a slice from her navel to her abdomen, smiling brightly as the blood poured and dripped down her thigh. She hissed in pain, and I laughed. I hadn't laughed so much since Daniel.

In that moment, I knew I was alive. But something inside me stirred, staring at her pale skin. It was covered in scrapes and scars from my clumsy guards - bastards! - who had been so wonderfully rough with her. I wanted her to suffer, but I didn't want her damaged. No, I wanted to do that part myself, with my own hands. I was surprised at the way she simply keeled over before me. What did I see in her face? A loss of hope, I suspect. Seeing this made me shiver from the inside out. I was intoxicated with the control. My hands wrapped around her throat, and I squeezed, feeling my anxieties release as my grip tightened.

When she didn't say anything - she wasn't nearly close to begging yet - I shoved her down onto the floor and kicked her ribs, hearing them crack under my boots. The scream was blood-curdling, and I loved it. Given that her shirt was torn, I cut it off of her as she lay in the fetal position and tossed it outside of the cell.

"Burn it," I instructed my guards. "She won't need it anymore."

It must have been well below freezing in the dungeon. In December, the bitter cold won out over all else. The goosebumps on her arms told me just how much heat she was lacking, and I relished the thought of her laying awake at night, unable to sleep because of the sting of the frost. Miserable. Pathetic. Exactly where and how I wanted her. Before exiting the cell, I kicked her one more time, on the other side, causing her to roll over onto her stomach and puke up a splash of blood and what little bread and water she'd had that morning. Seeing her without her shirt, I could tell she'd already lost weight in the few days I'd held her captive. I was barely feeding her, but I was still unsatisfied with the results.

"Don't feed her in the morning. She can starve until she tells me where her precious parents are."

Truth be told - and I rarely tell it - I was having too much fun with her to worry about the rest of the Charming family. I finally had my hands on what I wanted, and it was all too perfect to be true. She was mine to do with as I pleased, and there was no one to stop me. I imagined Snow and Prince Charming had plans to storm my castle with the pesky loyal dwarfs of theirs, but my fortress was too strong. They wouldn't make it past the castle gate. Emma was all mine, for as long as I wanted her to live. And at that point, I'd decided I wasn't ready for her to die. No, I would drag this out for as long as possible.

After the incident of broken ribs and internal bleeding, she gave in to my every whim. She indulged me when I gave orders and obeyed what I demanded. Of course, she refused to tell me the location of her parents, but that could wait. She would, eventually. I would make sure of that. But anything else I wanted, she gave. Sit. Stand. Turn around. She took the beatings day after day, until I finally grew bored.

"What shall I do to you today, Miss Swan?"

I thought of all the cruelest forms of torture, but none of them seemed sufficient. I cursed myself for not having a better imagination. In that moment, I would have given anything for the rush of the reaction of shock and horror on her face. But it didn't come. No matter how hard I tried to break her, she simply gave in and took whatever punishment I gave, refusing to fight me. I grew restless.

"You've grown complacent," I mused, pacing in front of her. "And that troubles me. What has you down, little princess? Missing mommy and daddy?"

I watched her eyes as she imagined her family. I knew she was thinking of Henry, too. I despised the thought of their reunion. He was _my_ son. Suddenly furious at the thought, I kicked her in the stomach and watched her fall over, bracing herself from the fall but scraping her elbows on the stone floor. I grinned at this. Her beautiful skin, tainted and covered with a combination of red welts, scabs, and open wounds. It was a masterpiece.

But I got no reaction from her, other than the pain in her eyes. There was no more fear, only anticipation of the next blow. This I could not stand for.

"How do I get through to you?" I asked seriously, staring directly into her face.

She looked at me, her eyes confessing the brokenness of her heart. But she wouldn't cry. Couldn't cry. I imagined her tears had all dried up by then. Unable to produce the reaction I wanted, I knelt down beside her and touched her shoulder tenderly.

"Emma," I said softly.

When I finally had brought surprise to her eyes, I thrust my fist against her still-healing broken ribs and listened to her scream. I imagined the blood filling her lungs, partly wishing she would die from the continuous brutal abuse. I tired of trying to get a reaction. It was too much effort, and my lust for her pain was only growing. Finally, though, I brought her to tears and listened to her sob.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story WILL get more feely in later chapters. It won't be all blood and guts.


	3. Desperate

I grew desperate.

One night, I finally resorted to touching myself, thinking it might help. I thought of her screaming, but it wasn't enough. I couldn't come.

The next morning, I went down to her cell and beat her until she couldn't speak. The less she reacted, the more brutal my attack became, until she was spitting up blood again. It got on my hands, and I marveled at the color dripping over my skin. But she startled me by doing something I had never expected. She reached up and grabbed my hand.

"Regina," she choked. "I forgive you."

Disgusted and confused, I left the cell, slamming the door behind me, leaving my two guards to lock it and watch over her. For the rest of the day, I thought about her words. I thought about the blood on her lips, the spark in her eyes. It was something I had never seen before, something I couldn't understand. There was something so alive about the way she looked at me then, something so pure. It sickened me to the point where I could not think of eating.

"Are you sure you won't eat, Your Majesty?" the cook asked me, placing a plate of prepared food on the table.

I shook my head and refused him. He took the plate away, and I sat at the table, staring down at the designs in the wood. I thought of going back to my bedchambers to try again, but knew it would only end in frustration. In a burst of a horrifyingly vivid vision, I imagined her naked, writhing in my bed. I imagined her licking her lips, wrists tied to the bedposts, begging for more. Shaking my head and willing the thoughts away, I slammed both fists on the table, the booming noise filling the entire hall. Three guards came running.

"I'm fine. GET OUT."

They turned on their heels and waited outside the hall, guarding the doors. I was alone. Completely alone. I stepped outside and turned to my new head guard - I was happy to be rid of the old one - and looked threateningly into his terrified blue eyes. I loved the way they feared me.

"Bring her to a room with a bed and bandage her wounds. I want her clean. Do it now!"

Hours later, I met her in her new bedchamber. Her hair seemed to glow, just having been washed, and her wounds were all clean and wrapped in fresh cloth. Blood seeped through some of them, but for the most part, her wounds had begun to heal.

"You're looking well," I said.

She stared at me like I was insane, and I hated that.

"What?" I snapped.

"What the hell are you doing?" she stammered.

"I've had a change of... well..." Not heart. "I've changed my mind."

"About what?"

"About you, Miss Swan. I've decided I want you alive. I've even decided to feed you."

I stepped outside the door and waved the cook inside. He sat a tray of steaming food beside her on the bed. She looked at it skeptically, which didn't surprise me. I didn't expect her to trust me, but strangely, I was being honest. I suddenly didn't want her dead. Something about her made me want her alive. It was the only thing I lived for, torturing her. But all at once, it seemed that wasn't working. I tried to no avail to break her, but all I broke was her willingness to fight. She would not cave in and tell me what I wanted to know, nor would she fight me. I couldn't win, so I changed the game.

"Eat."

She looked like she might laugh, but didn't.

"So you're going to poison me?"

"It's not poisonous," I snapped. "Just eat it, you brat."

"No."

"You're so stubborn!" I screamed, tossing the tray to the floor and scattering the food all over the carpet.

The cook instantly rushed to clear the mess, but I waved him away, shaking my head in his direction. I looked at Emma. Her eyes were dead, lifeless, unfeeling. I had no affect on her, and she was no longer shocked or surprised by my actions.

"Is there nothing I can do to break you?" I asked, sadness and frustration seeping through my voice.

She was spoiling my game.

"Nothing," she said, strength suddenly filling her voice.

I wanted to come back with something, to put her in her place, but I knew my comments would mean nothing. She had learned to tune me out, to ignore me. It was fucking infuriating.

"Why did you say you forgave me?"

"Because I do," she shrugged, leaning back against the headboard.

It was obvious she was still in pain by the way she winced at the simple movement. It would be months before her ribs completely healed.

"What do you forgive me for?" I asked.

"For this. For torturing me. For hunting my parents. For all your hatred. For everything except taking Henry from me."

I felt the uncomfortable unease of the moment and turned my head to face the window.

"Why?"

"Because you deserve to be forgiven. Because deep down, I know that you just want to be loved."

Her words struck me, and I stared at her. She'd rendered me speechless. I was losing the upper hand, and quickly. Why was she saying these things? How could she, after everything I'd done to her? And, really. Me? Loved? I had to laugh. When she actually dared to roll her eyes at me, I brought my hand back to slap her, but lowered it almost instantly.

"No one could ever love me," I finally responded, my hands resting at my sides as I sat on the bed beside her.

"I could."


	4. Guilt

I realized that more than I wanted to kill her, I wanted to own her. I wanted to claim her and rule her very being. But something about her was far away, somewhere I couldn't reach. I loathed the thought of her freedom, and yet, as she sat up in the bed beside me, she was freer than I was. I was trapped by my hate, consumed by it. She was free to love and forgive. It was a feeling I would never know.

"How?" I pressed, looking into her face for the truth.

What kind of a game was she trying to play with me? I wanted to beat the truth out of her, to take her neck in my hands and break it.

"Because you're not so unlovable as you might believe. I knew you before this bloodlust began, Regina, and I know you have the capacity to love. You love Henry, don't you?"

"Yes," I said, my confusion still written all over my face.

"Then you can love another person, too."

"Like who?"

"Anyone you wish you love, Regina. You have it in you to turn away from your hate. And if you can't do that for me, that's okay. But someday, I hope you do it for you. I don't mind taking the brunt of your anger. I will happily take each blow in stride and allow you to express your loathing. The only thing I will not do is let you hurt my family."

"WHY do you care so much?" I snapped.

She didn't look surprised. Just... What was the look on her face? It was disappointment.

"Because they're my family, Regina. They're all I have," she told me.

I cringed and hissed, "Love is weakness."

"Love is strength. You will see. Look at Henry. Is he weak?"

He was the strongest little boy I'd ever met. Incredibly resilient. And he loved deeper than anyone I'd ever known. Maybe she had a point, but I refused to believe it.

"No. But he's a little boy. He will grow out of it."

"You think he'll stop loving you? Because he won't."

I was taken aback by this. Why was she telling me that? Was she even right? I thought about Henry and how he was getting older each day - taller, smarter, more handsome. I did believe that one day he would leave me. He would grow up, we would grow apart, the last piece of my family would be torn to shreds, and I would be left alone again. I shuddered at the thought of watching him leave the castle. I imagined that one day he would stop believing my lies about Emma, and that he would go in search of his mother. He was a stubborn boy - just like her - and likely would not stop or rest until he found her. Picturing him saying goodbye was the only thing that could break my heart, and it did.

She must have seen this in my eyes, because she rested her hand over mine and said, "He won't."

Maybe she was right. He was a loving little boy, and he did seem to care for me. I worried every day that his love would run out, and that he would see through me, see my cruelty. Sometimes I thought about stopping, about refraining from malice and spite, but every day I chose the different path, and every day I let out the darkest parts of me, except when he was with me. It was easy to release my anger on Emma, but now I had a different plan. Well, not a plan so much as a theory. Maybe emotional torture was the way to go. Somehow, I had to break her. I was already half way there. She'd given up on herself and any hope she may have had, but she still would not give up her secret.

Snapping out of my trance, I jerked my hand away.

"What are you doing?" I gasped, gaping at her.

"Treating you with the kindness you've never known, because you deserve it. You deserve to be loved."

She sickened me, and I felt nauseated. I stood and moved to the doorway, turning back to meet her gaze, which was sharply focused on me.

"Rest. Regain your strength. I want you alive when I torture you next."

I heard her sigh and left the room.

Up in Henry's room, I sat beside him on his bed. He was reading his storybook, engrossed in its pages.

"Henry," I said. "Do you love me?"

"Of course I love you, Mom. Why wouldn't I?"

"Because you once called me cruel. You stopped believing in me."

"But you proved yourself. You changed. I'm proud of you."

He draped his arms around my neck and hugged me tightly, not letting go. My hands reached up to rub his back, but I felt my heart sinking into the depths of my stomach. He did believe in me, after everything, but I knew it was because of Emma, because he believed that she'd abandoned him. But I couldn't tell him otherwise. I couldn't risk the loss of his love. I couldn't stand to watch him turn away from me again. Back in Storybrooke, he'd begun to hate me for my actions, and it killed me inside. He was the only one since Daniel who could make me feel something, the only one I loved. And I loved him deeply. He was my little treasure, my little prince, my perfect son. I kissed his forehead and stroked his hair.

"I love you too, Henry, and I always will. No matter what," I promised.

I was telling the truth. I knew that he would always be the apple of my eye, and that I would never stop being proud of him. He was so smart, so clever. Each day, he impressed me more with his intelligence. He soaked up every lesson from his tutor like a sponge. But I knew he longed for companionship, for a friend. His heart was heavy with a loneliness I could not fill, and it broke my heart to see the sadness in his eyes. But no family would come near him, because he was my son. Part of me wanted them to fear me, but part of me wanted their love, for Henry's sake.

"I know you're lonely," I told him, "but I promise this is for the best. I care about you and want to keep you safe."

"I know," he said sadly.

My heart stuck in my stomach and would not move back into place.

"You should go play, Henry. Don't bury yourself in a book all day. Go do something fun. Play with your toys or do something else."

"But I want to read, Mom!" he protested, hugging his book tightly to his chest.

I sighed and conceded.

"Alright. If you change your mind, you can join me downstairs. We can talk about whatever you'd like."

He looked intrigued and set the book down on the bed.

"Anything?" he asked enthusiastically, but with skepticism.

"Anything."

Downstairs in the hall, we sat at the table as he ate his lunch. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until the cook offered him food. He ate as though he was starving, even though he'd had a huge breakfast just a few hours before.

"Slow down, my prince!" I said, smiling. "Don't choke."

He obeyed. When he finally paused to speak, he was cautious of his words. Of course, his curious, burdened mind asked the one question I couldn't bring myself to answer.

"Why doesn't Emma love me?"

I sighed and shook my head.

"I don't know, sweetheart," I lied. "I don't know."

When he started to cry, his face growing red, I stood up, knelt in front of his chair, and took his hands in my own.

"It's okay, Henry," I told him. "I will always be here for you."

Finally, I felt something I could not understand. I felt guilt.


	5. Healing

The next morning, I visited Emma in her bedroom. Her wounds looked worse than the day before, and blood was seeping through her bandages.

"YOU!" I screamed, pointing at the guard who was in charge of looking after her. "I said CLEAN HER UP, did I not?"

He quivered - I could see him shaking in his boots - and nodded.

"Then WHY are her bandages SOAKED?"

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty," he blurted, and rushed out of the room - I assumed to get the cleaning supplies.

Emma simply looked at me, her face void of expression.

"What is it?" I asked.

I couldn't contain my curiosity. Something about her made me want to know everything, to control her every thought. I burned with the desire to own her emotions, her very essence. I yearned for the dominance I did not seem to have over her. She was winning, and I couldn't stand it. No matter how I beat her, she refused to express any feeling. I wanted her to suffer, but it seemed that she'd learned to shut out the pain, leaving only loving, hopeful thoughts of her family. Her spirit was broken, but that was all.

"You seem very sincere," she said, shrugging. "Why do you suddenly care so about my well-being?"

"That is none of your concern," I quipped.

"Do you really think you can make this any worse for me?"

"Yes," I replied. "Yes, I do."

"How?"

"Stop asking so many questions!" I snapped.

"Why are you here?" she pressed.

"To make sure you're still alive."

The guard approached the beside and began dressing her wounds. She hissed in pain as the fabric of her bandages was pulled away from her wounds, tearing them open. Some involuntary urge inside me made me want to apologize, to look at her with sympathy, but I refused to let it happen. She wouldn't win. I would rule her, even if it tore me apart.

Over the next few weeks, Emma began to heal. Soon, she was strong enough to stand again, without collapsing. She tried many times before, but only found herself on the floor again. She was unable to move, crippled by the pain, which was mostly from her broken ribs. It made it nearly impossible for her to sit up in bed. Something inside me stirred the first time I saw her stand. I was almost proud, though I couldn't understand the feeling. I tried to explain it away as something else, but was unable to. I couldn't help the smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

"Look at you," I said. "Standing strong again. I suppose you're ready to fight back now?"

My voice lacked sincerity and seriousness, and she could tell. She actually smiled at me. I felt my fury return, twisting my insides. Her insolence lit the fire of rage me, but I bit my lip and shoved it down, refusing to let it surface. I wouldn't let her get to me.

"No, Regina," she said. "And you're not going to hit me. You might lie, but your eyes don't."

"What is that supposed to mean?" I spat.

"It means I can tell that you have no desire to hurt me. You might want control - you won't get it - but you're tired of hurting me. You were unsatisfied with the results, and now you're doing the only other thing you know how to do - letting me heal. You would have taken my life or put me back in that cell by now if you were going to."

I scowled at her, hating the truth of her words. She was right. I had no intentions of returning her to her cell. It _was_ unsatisfying. But something about watching her regain her strength awakened something inside of me. Day after day, I watched the light return to her eyes as she got stronger and stronger, until at last, she was walking on her own, with less crippling pain. One day, something struck me. I didn't know why I said it, or where the idea had come from, but it flowed past my lips before I could stop it.

"We should go outside," I suggested.

She raised her eyebrows at me and looked towards the guard at the door, who also looked surprised.

"You'd let me outside?"

"Why not? It's not like you'll run."

I almost laughed, but I suppressed it. The confusion in her face was almost adorable.

"Come on," I said. "Tell me. Do you want to? Are you up to it? If you're not, I can leave you alone and let you rest."

What the hell was I saying?

She nodded weakly and stood, leaning against the nightstand beside the bed.

"Let's go," she agreed.

The way the sunlight splashed on her pale face made me flustered. Something in her green eyes made my stomach twist into a knot. Something about her was so... beautiful. The thought sickened me, and I despised the feelings of sympathy and tenderness that swelled in me and tightened my chest. I wanted them gone, but I could not keep them at bay. Emma was too beautiful. The way the light illuminated her blonde hair caused my heart to race. Suddenly, she was keeling over, arms wrapped around her chest. She was moving too fast, exerting too much effort. Her energy was dropping quickly.

"Emma?" I was afraid, but I touched her shoulder and asked, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she lied. "It just hurts..."

I was surprised that she admitted this to me. In all the time she'd been captive, she'd never complained. She simply took the punishments, as if she deserved them. Thinking of this made me cringe. There was something wrong about the idea of her feeling as though she deserved my brutality. Even I knew she did not. Yes, she was my enemy - the woman who almost took my son from me, the daughter of the woman I hated more than anything in the world - but my malevolence she did not merit.

"I'm sorry."

The words escaped my lips before I could stop them. As soon as I heard them, I covered my mouth, staring with my jaw dropped. Disbelief filled me with horror. At first, I felt as though I was in some terrible dream, some nightmare where I was trapped inside my own emotions. I felt as though I might vomit, and did not remove my hands from my mouth. As pure, unadulterated terror filled me, Emma gave a small smile through the pain and continued holding her ribs, warmth filling her face.

"I forgive you, Regina."

My heart skipped a beat as she softly said my name and quivered, feeling goosebumps cover my forearms. This woman had proved her power over me, and in that moment, I knew I'd lost all control. Seeing that I was panicked, she reached for my hand. When I jerked it away, she reached for it again and held it tighter than the first time. Still, the softness of her touch shocked me.

"I knew you felt something."


	6. Alone

I said nothing else the rest of the day that we spent outside. The cook brought us lunch and a blanket to sit on. I'd ordered my guards away, so the two of us were completely alone for the first time. As I glanced over at her periodically, I noticed that she looked surprisingly comfortable, completely void of fear. This frightened me; if she no longer feared me, I no longer had control over her. But had I ever? Truly, it had been her who was hardened to the torture I inflicted on her. She was untouched by my insults, unfazed by my cruelty, unintimidated by my threats. Knowing I was terrified - she could see it in the uncertainty in my expression - she reached over and rested her hand on top of mine.

"I could love you," she said, looking over at me.

I refused to meet her eyes, but inside, my heart was throbbing with longing. She was right. It was the lack of caring in my life that had hardened my heart, but her gentleness had begun to melt the ice away from my frozen soul. I still didn't reply, but I didn't pull my hand away either. I felt paralyzed, my hand stuck beneath hers. My lungs tightened, and she could see that I was straining to breathe, my breaths coming shallow and sharp, so she leaned in, her lips dangerously close to my ear.

"It's okay."

Something inside me melted, and I turned my head to face her. In her face, I saw something I'd never seen in anyone but Daniel and Henry. Affection. How was it possible, after everything I'd done to her? It was like she understood me, even though I could not. This scared me, but I didn't look away. I bravely met her eyes with stubbornness, daring myself to hold her gaze. And then, she did something that I'd never expected. Her lips pressed against mine - slowly, with tenderness I'd never felt before. The softness of her lips was intoxicating, and I couldn't stop my lips from moving with hers, kissing her back slowly. Hungry for more, but not daring to pull her closer, I deepened the kiss and prayed for more.

She sensed my yearning and reached her hand up and placed it on the side of my neck, moving me closer and matching the depth of my kiss. When I pulled away, my breath taken by her lips, she dropped her hand and rested it on top of mine again, looking into my eyes. When I still said nothing, she pressed her lips to my cheeks - first the left, and then the right. As I regained my composure, she stayed close to me, not providing me with space to recover from the rush of her touch. Under her fingertips, I lost all thoughts of vengeance and hate. All I found there was a deep affection for this woman who I'd loathed so passionately just a few months before. The more I fought it, the more the flame of my desire burned.

I walked her to her bedchambers in the dark, carrying only a candle to guide us. Once in her room, she set her candle by the nightstand and sat down on the bed. I stood in front of her, awkwardly holding my candle, not knowing what to say.

"I'll see you in the morning," I said softly, clenching my free hand into a fist by my side.

She looked sad, so I lingered a little longer, until she finally said, "Will you stay with me until I fall asleep? I have terrible nightmares here."

Without thinking, I nodded. What was I doing? Flustered, I sat in a chair by her bed, still holding my candle. I looked away as she put on in her nightgown. Something in me felt the urge to turn my head, to look, to watch her undress. My stomach flipped, so I shut my eyes.

"You can open your eyes now," she told me.

I did. The nightgown hugged her figure and accentuated her curves. She was still too thin, but the garment suited her perfectly. I felt my face grow warm as I watched her slip under the covers.

"What do you do when you can't fall asleep?" she asked me.

I didn't know what to say. I usually imagined the satisfaction I would feel from killing her mother, the woman who had destroyed me. Other times...

"I sometimes think of you," I confessed, no filter stopping my words.

"Why?"

I thought hard, then answered, "You intrigue me. You fascinate me. Something about you makes me want to know each part of you, to feel what you feel, to share those moments with you. I can't explain it."

"You just did," she said. After a bout of silence, she said, "You're beautiful, you know."

A blush rose to my cheeks, making them hot. I felt my heart racing again, and found myself flustered that I could not control it. I was squirming inside, knowing she could read each emotion on my face. I could not lie to her. She could always tell, and made sure that I knew it. I shut my eyes, trying to block the windows to my heart.

"Tell me you feel this too."

Again, I could not lie, but I could not speak the words, either, so I nodded.


	7. Reunited

She spoke softly to me as she lay in bed, of nothing important, until I fell asleep in the chair beside her. In the morning, she kissed me awake. We were both served breakfast and ate it in her room, talking and sharing stories of our past. Mine were fairly superficial, but she saw through them. I knew she was waiting for more, but all the important moments pained me, so I refrained from bringing them up. She, on the other hand, shared anything that came to mind - even sad stories of of her childhood, like being raised in foster care. I was filled with pity, which she sensed and scolded me for.

"Don't feel bad for me," she instructed.

I couldn't help it. My own guilt overwhelmed me, and thinking of her growing up in such a situation pained me. She'd experienced so much pain she didn't deserve. Why had I tortured her so? After an hour or so, the conversation trickled to a stop. After a period of silence where we simply looked at each other, imagining what the other was thinking, she spoke again.

"Regina," she said softly. "Let me see my son."

My stomach clenched. Henry. How could I tell him what I'd done? I would lose his love forever. But Emma had done nothing wrong, and he _was_ her child. I couldn't keep him from her, but telling him would be too difficult.

"I can't," I protested. "I can't tell him what I've done."

"Then don't," she said. "Just tell him I'm here and that I love him very much, and I only went away because I had to."

I was shocked at this. She wanted me to lie? I thought it through. She was probably right. Although I knew that all he wanted from me was goodness and honesty, I couldn't stand to hurt him. It hurt to think how thrilled he would be to see her. I would be forgotten in his rush of emotion. He'd always loved her more, and it was only when they were separated that he began to show his love for me. With them reunited, I was sure to lose any affection he had for me. But I could not deny her. The tragic look in her eyes forced me to obey.

"Alright," I conceded.

When I brought her to Henry's room, my heart was racing at the thought of losing my son, but Emma's affection for me kept me strong. I knocked on the door, louder than I'd intended, my hands shaking with nervousness.

"Henry," I called out. "I need you to come out."

He appeared in the doorway, clutching his book. When he laid eyes on his mother, he dropped it to the floor.

"Emma!" he screamed, throwing his arms around her waist.

She knelt down to meet him, her arms wrapping him in a tight embrace. I stood beside them, forgotten. I watched as they held each other and they both started crying. What could I do? But a blessing befell me. Henry, for once, asked no questions - of me or his mother. He had simply decided to accept the reality that she had returned to him, and refused to question why she'd left or why she'd returned. When they finally separated, Henry looked up at me.

"Mom! I knew she loved me!"

I nodded. What else could I do? He wrapped his arms around me, and I stared down at him in disbelief. He hadn't turned away from me or blamed me at all, and he hadn't forgotten his love for me. My boy was still mine, and now I had both a son and a companion. My heart swelled as Emma took my hand, watching me hold Henry with my free arm, my cheek pressed against his forehead. At dinner, Henry began to ask the uncomfortable questions.

"Are you to together?" he said, looking back and forth between us.

I looked to her for the answer and saw her nod. My cheeks turned red as I looked down at the plate in front of me. How would he receive that? Would he understand? It seemed that he did, because he was smiling.

"I love you guys," he said, beaming.

"We love you too, Henry," I told him.

Emma just smiled.

Over the next few days, we spent immense amounts of time together, Emma reading him stories from his book with me beside her, listening. I loved her voice, the way it sounded, the way it rang in my ears. It sent shivers down my spine. Each night, I fell asleep at her bedside, until she finally asked for what she'd been wanting the whole time.

"Come to bed with me," she pleaded softly. "Don't sleep in the chair."

It wasn't that I _tried_ to fall asleep in the chair beside her each night; it was simply that I couldn't help myself. We talked for long hours into the night, until neither of us could keep our eyes open, until I was too tired to walk to my bedchamber. As I considered her proposition - I'd thought about it before - my blood grew warm and it circulated and pumped through my heart. I thought of her body pressed against me, the bare skin of her shoulders touching mine. My first instinct was to resist her effort at closeness, but I chose to fight the urge. Instead, I quietly removed my dress, suddenly embarrassed, and slipped into the bed beside her. She instantly scooted closer to me and took my hand.

"It's okay," she promised. "I don't bite hard."

She'd become good at making me smile - an impossible skill - to the point where I couldn't resist her charm. In bed with her at last, I realized that she was my match in every way.

* * *


End file.
